I found an old entry in my diary that I wrote during one of the darkest times of my life, and when I was even more of a dumbass.
After doing a little experiment on myself, I decided that I won't be self harming. I drew dozens of lines on my arm with an archival pen and it's hard to hide from people. It always gets too hot to keep a jacket on. I'm so underweight that there's not a single spot on my arm without a blue vein up against the skin. Even rubbing against those parts with the pen made me feel weird.
So cutting myself would be a pretty dumb thing to do. It would make people worry even more.
Technically I did cut myself two times already but both of those were because I was just being a dumbass playing with a knife. The first time was because I had to test if a knife was real or not. Dumbfuck.
...what the fuck was I thinking? Why did I even think about self harming in the first place? That doesn't sound like me at all. I must've been possessed or some shit since I can barely remember what happened in November.